“But even before I heard about what he’d been doing to Daisy, I had doubts. I felt . . . He was so controlling. And he never really seemed interested in me. I was just an object, a trophy he got to show off to his friends. He blatantly showered other women with compliments when we were out together and then told me how I should dress more like them or act like them. He even—” She caught herself before completing the thought and blushed furiously. This particular blush fascinated the hell out of him—he wanted to know what had caused it and was frustrated when she stopped so abruptly.
“He even what?” he prompted, and she swallowed audibly before shaking her head.
“It was nothing. Lift your arm.” The detached instruction startled him and he looked down, surprised to see that she had unbuttoned the shirt completely. He obediently lifted his arm and refocused his gaze on her face. She carefully tugged the shirt over his cast until it was hanging from just his left shoulder. Sam carelessly shrugged the rest of the way out of the thing, trying to figure out how to keep her talking. But he could tell that she wasn’t going to divulge any further information, and he knew pushing her on the subject would probably have the opposite intended effect.
“I have to go. The lasagna just needs to be heated. Three minutes in the microwave should do it. I’ve also prepared a salad to go with it. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You don’t want to join me for dinner?”
“No, thank you, I have plans.”
“Anything exciting?”
“Nothing that would interest you.”
“More of your do-gooding? What is it this time? Cupcakes for Christians? Doughnuts for the deaf? Hugs for hookers?”
“Nothing so commendable,” she said in a wobbly voice, clearly fighting back a laugh. “I have a date.”
Sam’s knee-jerk reaction to that was a resounding “hell no!” He wanted her focus on him and him alone. He vaguely recalled her mentioning a guy the other night. Something about it getting serious recently. He did not like the thought of some other guy kissing her and touching her. Sam was too territorial to share.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” The words felt like sand in his mouth, and he spat them out in much the same way he would actual sand.
“Just a guy.”
“Your Mr. Right?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure yet. We’ve only been on a few dates.” She cleared her throat and nervously twirled her car keys on her index finger. She seemed evasive, and he wondered what she was hiding. Sam tilted his head and watched her speculatively. He’d find out eventually—he just needed to figure out the best way to extract that information from her.
“Thanks for today,” he said, and she nodded. “Sorry about being an arsehole at the library.”
“You were in pain; I suppose it’s understandable.”
Could it really be that easy to secure her forgiveness on something that she’d been fuming about less than half an hour ago?
“Anyway . . .” Another nervous throat clearing. “Have a good evening.”
She left before he could say anything further.
Of course she didn’t have a date, especially not with Gregory again. Lia had just needed an excuse to get out of there as quickly as possible. She’d been so angry with him for his behavior at the library, but his confidences about his relationship with Laura Prentiss had taken the wind clear out of her sails. Add his naked chest into the equation, and she’d found herself revealing unnecessary things—almost admitting to the humiliating fact that Clayton had been so controlling that he’d even chosen her wedding dress—and then telling blatant lies just to get out of there.
It hadn’t been her most shining moment.
When she got home, she found her mother in the kitchen.
“Hello, dear, would you like the spoon?” her mother asked, offering her a chocolate batter–covered wooden spoon, and Lia groaned.
“You know I do,” she said, grabbing the spoon with both hands. This was one of the perks of being the only one still living at home—she didn’t have to share the bowl, the spoon, or the mixing blades with her sisters. All this chocolatey goodness was hers alone. It was almost enough to make her reconsider her decision to move out.
“Yum,” she crooned after a few happy licks of the unexpected treat. “What’s the occasion?”
“I’m not baking this one for us. It’s for Mason’s friend Sam. Daisy asked me to check how he’s doing, and I thought I’d bake him a cake, poor boy.”
Now was probably the time to admit that she’d been helping him out. She grimaced—she really didn’t want to. Her mother had this uncanny ability to sniff out secrets and half-truths. Still, if her mother was going around there tomorrow, Brand would probably mention it, and then the older woman would wonder why Lia hadn’t said something.